


Posterior Anatomy

by jdphoenix



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing wrong with a little ogling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Posterior Anatomy

The summer after the werewolf revelation, when Allison was still traveling and Jackson was already off in London, Lydia got her first flat tire. She was perfectly capable of changing one, thank you very much, but fate seemed to enjoy spitting in the face of Lydia Martin so it was no surprise really when it began to rain. A summer storm, wet and warm and clinging to her blouse and skirt. So now, in addition to everything being slippery, her loose, frilly clothes were a heavy, annoying hindrance.

“Do you need some help?”

Lydia was lucky she didn’t leap right out of her skin at the voice. As it was one of her sandals slipped out from under her and her ass hit the road. She could feel water and months of oil build-up seeping through her skirt and underwear.

“Oh, jeez, lemme -”

Stiles’ hand - because it _was_ Stiles, who else would happen to be walking by when she was in the middle of a crisis? - wrapped around her elbow and he helped her to her feet. He bent around her and got two smacks in before he realized he was wiping leaves and dirt off her _ass_ and jumped back like he’d been burned. His face was quickly turning a bright red and he held the offending hand up like he was afraid a masked musician was going to murder him.

She took pity on him and lightened the intensity of her _seriously?_ face. Rather than comment she said, “I can handle this.” The rain was passing quickly and in a few seconds she’d be able to dry off the tire iron and get this done.

“Are you sure? Because you’re not really dressed … for …”

And now his eyes were locked on her chest.

She stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Given the extent of her utter done-ness, she couldn’t do it without involving a good portion of her upper body in it as well and there was no way she was giving him a show. Instead she smacked him (lightly) in the chest with the tire iron.

He _oomphed_ and fell back a step. (Okay, maybe not that lightly.)

“You’re right,” she said, “it’s the least you can do after fondling me _and_ ogling me.”

His eyes went wide, fixed on her face. “I- I didn’t mean to-!”

She smiled. He was just too decent about it for her not to. “Just change the tire, Stiles.”

He gulped and nodded emphatically. While he was busy on the ground she grabbed her emergency jacket from the trunk to cover up.

“Where did you come from, anyway?” she asked.

“Rock Springs,” he said, his voice tight like he was expending effort with something more strenuous than talking.

Lydia felt a moment of disorientation. She looked around hurriedly at the dense trees on one side and the old warehouses on the other just to confirm where they were. (It wouldn’t be the first time she’d lost track of where she was that year.) She was sure - absolutely certain - that they were on Farrell Drive.

“That’s four miles away,” she said. She marched quickly around the car to confront him but stopped a few feet away, unable to bring herself forward.

“Yeah,” he said in that same tone.

He was bent double, cranking the jack to lift the car. His back … it - oh, there was just no other word - it _undulated_ with every turn. His wet t-shirt clung to him, giving her alternating impressions of toned sacrospinalis and trapezius muscles until finally the tire was fully off the ground. He unrolled himself and turned, taking in the car to ensure it was stable as he went. She was glad. It gave her time to school her features into casual indifference.

“I’m training,” he said. It took her a moment to remember she’d asked a question. He bounced on the balls of his feet. “Coach gave everyone a workout schedule for the summer.”

“And you’re actually doing it?” He’d played in all of one game last season and that was because there was literally _no one else left_ for Coach to turn to. He wasn’t exactly on the college scholarship track and she’d have expected Stiles to spend the summer in his room researching obscure facts relating to everything from their AP Bio summer homework to werewolf mating rituals. (Pretty much what she’d been doing for the last two months.)

“Gotta keep up with those werewolves.” He bounced one last time and squatted back down.

Lydia locked her knees. She refused to take a step back for a better view as he removed the nuts he’d already loosened. She was not going to ogle Stiles Stilinski. He was … _Stiles_ , for goodness’ sakes! This was the guy who fell all over himself just to say hello to her in the hallway and made corny speeches at dances and -

Funny she should mention dances.

Her mind - vicious, traitorous thing! She gave it books and knowledge and it did _this_ to her? - flashed back to that moment on the dance floor. A slow dance, a blessing to save her from the horror of Stiles spazzing in front of the entire student body. He’d been so nervous about touching her that she had to throw her arms around him first and then they were swaying and she could feel every one of the muscles she was now seeing beneath the fabric of his shirt.

Her fingers itched to touch them again, to feel their gentle rise and swell and count the bones. Maybe even slide around to his front, press her breasts into his back, feel the skin over his abs, still wet from the rain.

Lydia spun around, closed her eyes, and counted backward from three thousand by primes.

Somewhere around two thousand Stiles put a hand on her shoulder. She jumped. Again. This time he caught her by the shoulders and kept her steady. She was very glad she’d gotten her emergency jacket out.

“You all right? You were kinda out of if there for a minute.”

She ignored the question and knocked his arms away so she could inspect his work. He’d already cleaned up, put everything back in her trunk - she wouldn’t be surprised if she opened it later and found it all exactly in the right places. The tire looked as good as a spare could. It would get her home to change and to the tire store.

“It should hold you,” he said over her shoulder. He was hovering, eager for her approval.

“Hopefully,” she said coldly. She moved to the door.

“Well … I’d better get going.” He was deflated. She wondered if this was what he sounded like whenever she’d ignored his greetings in the hallways.

“Yeah, you’d better.”

He took off slowly down the road, easing back into his run. Lydia climbed into her car. The disgust at sitting again, with the wet and ick still clinging to her backside, was slightly lessened by the sight of Stiles’ own backside bouncing leisurely ahead of her. In the privacy of her vehicle she allowed herself a single moan of longing.

Her car caught up to him easily, if a little too slowly - it _was_ a nice view. She rolled down the passenger window as she pulled alongside him.

“Keep it up,” she said, “you’re looking good.”

She sped up before he could say anything but she thought she heard a “you think so?” drift away on the wind. Whatever he may have said, his smile lit up her rearview mirror.


End file.
